jeudi 31 mars 2016

The better classical epic poet: Homer or Vergil?

Homer and Vergil are the two great epic poets of the classical era (I would also throw in Ovid). The Iliad, the Odyssey, and the Aeneid are three of the world's great epics, for their capacious containing of whole civilizations and themes and images and for all their genre-defining traits of the epic poem. Without these three, we probably wouldn't have many of our best literary works.

However, I would like to know who is the better poet not only of the epic but better overall? Fans of Homer would give Homer the credit of writing better stories and more energetic scale, whereas fans of Vergil will point to Vergil's linguistic abilities and his strong perfection and the unique mixture of clarity and poetic beauty that is Vergillean. As for criticisms of both, Homer is perhaps faulted for his imperfections and laziness of language compared to Vergil, whereas Virgil seems more half-hearted and unenthusiastic.

Whose poetic style and method do you prefer (though both were originally written in that classic form of unrhymed dactylic hexameter)? Whose spirit appeals to you more? Whose vision feels better for you? And whom do you feel is the all-around better and more influential poet?

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The better classical epic poet: Homer or Vergil?

Revolutionary Road, Non-Male

I`m only now reading Revolutionary Road and about halfway through, I`m wondering if there are good novels touching on similar subjects from women's perspectives. There are probably obvious answers to this one but I don't know them, so any suggestions would be appreciated. Thanks!

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Revolutionary Road, Non-Male

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The tyrannical rule of emotion
Oppresses me still;
Even if one loses "that lovin' feeling,"
The mental construct lingers
And begs for satisfaction.
What is a creaky old centaur to do?
The colts whinny by me,
Ablaze with high spirits;
The fauns and related fatuous fauna
Peer out from the bushes and yippie-yip-yip;
Past partners in crime write their memoirs
And blush the fake blushes of pious recanters.
My strut's been disabled by safety inspectors,
So now I'm no more than a wooden horse
That coasts down the ramp to the watering hole
Where once in my studdom I ballyhooed.
(If ever that mythical time was real.)
I've fallen again! Help me up, young upstarts,
And sidewind my crankbox of love
Once-twice-thrice!

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Australian interested in Shakespeare, poetry, classics

I've been a non-fiction reader until recently. I didn't understand why so many hours should be spent reading novels, plays etc. when those hours could be used learning facts to increase one's knowledge of the world, eg. a history book of World War 2. I gamed English at school by just reading many study guides without reading the actual text and I did quite well.

I became interested in theology and Christopher Hitchens' writings fascinated me. He brought fictional characters and novelists into all of his debates and arguments, which was a new and interesting way to make an statement. That kindled my interest in the use of literature.

I read Macbeth one day, long after graduating, and was fascinated by Shakespeare's use of language. I've wanted to understand Shakespeare since then. I rushed through a few of Shakespeare's plays but got nothing out of them, so now I'm trying to read the plays slower and reading study guides BEFOREHAND so that I actually know what's going on in the difficult texts.

Recently I became interested in poetry and am trying to memorise them before moving on to another one. I've memorised 100 lines from Rime of the Ancient Mariner and hoping that within half a year I'll memorise the rest!

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Australian interested in Shakespeare, poetry, classics

A Tall Guy with Three Holsters

This is Part 2 of a thrilling new short story written by me and it was shortlisted by Needle-in-the-Hay Short Story publishing website for their Trilogy Award. The story begins dramatically with a disguised secret agent causing havoc among distinguished guests attending a much anticipated home-coming.

"The arrival of a thickset individual dressed in a dark blue suit largely went unnoticed until he became too intoxicated to stand erect and hurtled a chair at a group of young men. Wood met bone, wounding critically an unwary gentleman who had his back turned on the dark blue suit."

But his plans were unexpectedly foiled when an unidentified gunman steps in, firing full upon him with absolutely no hesitation at all.

"The swift swish of the sarong and the sharp hiss of gunshot was almost one. Dayanan bellowed as he felt the red hot splinters knife through his flesh above the right knee. He fell to his knees, hugging the wounded leg, warm blood seeping freely, staining the deep rich carpet."

I can feel your heartbeat quickening. So ask me for the whole story!

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A Tall Guy with Three Holsters

Introduction to Group

Hi everyone, This is my first day here so I thought I would introduce myself to the group. My name is joysku. I am in my 60s and trying to get over what could have been a great relationship. I've been thinking a lot about a poem someone gave me back in high school. I believe it was called "Of Daffodils and Violets". I would love to be able to get a copy of this poem again. It would mean a lot to me. I am looking forward to getting to know you all in this group. I am from Rhode Island, the smallest state. I have been here all of my life and I truly love it here. Especially the beaches. There is one beach that I particularly love. I call it my favorite place in the world. It is Narragansett Beach in Narragansett, RI. I love to sit on the sea wall when I can and watch the waves crash against the rocks. I love watching the Sea Gulls as they fly all around. And I love the way the ocean looks different every day. The color of the water is different, the size of the waves are different every day. The last time I was there the beach water was mostly green but I could see the occasional streaks of bright blue in the water as well as the white caps and water spraying off the top of the waves just before they would crash. The sun shining brightly over the water that day was in and out due to mostly cloudy skies but still it was beautiful. Any of you who have never been here should make it a point to come. I know you would love it here. The seafood is great, sometimes a little pricey but definitely worth it. I hope you all can help me find that poem. I would be more than happy to help out any one of you with any sort of research you might need. Just let me know. Thanks for letting me share.

Joysku

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Introduction to Group

Lilith

The concept of Adam having a first wife, and Eve not being the first woman is of interest.
I have found the church, and those in the church to steadfast refuse any notion that Lilith might have existed. But then those same church people will also not acknowledge that before the flood everyone was a vegetarian sooo.....

There are two distinct women created in the Bible:
Eve- Genesis 2:21-25 "made from the rib of man"
"Lilith"- Genesis 1:26-29 Genesis 2:4-8 and Genesis 5:1-2. The three accounts imply that Adam and the woman were created at the same time. Both from dust, unlike the account of eves creation. In some translations the woman is missing from the second account, in literal Hebrew translations a woman named Adamah was created with adam, and watered with mist.

In Genesis 1:26-29 God gives permission to both man and woman to eat freely of every tree; however Eve was never given permission to eat of every tree. After Adam was moved to the Garden, BEFORE Eve was created in Genesis 2:18-25, God warns Adam that he may no longer eat freely. In Genesis 2:15-17 God tells Adam he must guard the tree of knowledge, and not eat from it. The restriction is in place before the creation of Eve- this leads me to think that there has to be a different female creation before Eve. In Genesis 5:2 a single name is given for both the male and female "Adam" supporting the dual creation from dust theory. You could conclude that Adamah would be the feminine form of Adam, meaning "ground" and "root" Consistent with the legend that Lilith was created from muck and mud. The literal Hebrew of Genesis 2:18 would explain why Adam was lonely, as he originally had a mate and became alone, explaining Adam's unsuccessful search for a mate. You could also take this to show that Eve was a replacement for the first woman. After Eve was created Adam awakened to exclaim "this time is this" or "hapa'am" in Hebrew. Representing a repeated event in comparison to the original. Almost as if to exclaim this time we got it right! In reference to the "bone of my bone" in comparison to the original creation with dust/mud.

The serpent in the Garden was not a snake, but rather a "nachash" the root word nechash means "divine". Originally the root meant to whisper, it came to change meaning to describe individuals who obtain power from whispering voices of demonic spirits. Those inhabited were predominately women, If the serpent is indeed human, Lilith provides a very plausible origin. The most famous Nachash serpent of the Bible is Leviathan, commonly believed to be Lucifer in the form of the garden serpent. In Job 26:23 and Isaiah 27:1 Leviathan has described as a winged serpent fleeing from God to the seas. The legend of Lilith
matches this description, with her also fleeing on wings from the garden, to the ocean. 1 Enoch confirms that the Leviathan dwells in the seas, and is Female, again matching Lilith. In the Garden God curses the Serpent, promising the Messiah would crush its head, In Psalm 74:14 we see God crushing the head of the Leviathan- are they one and the same?

Job 26:13 implies that the serpent Leviathan was created along with Adam "By his spirit he has garnished the heavens; his hand has formed the crooked serpent." This places the serpent being created, at the same time as Adam in the same fashion. Making a fairly decent case for the serpent being Lilith and supporting her existence. The serpents ability to speak and manipulate characterize it as having human traits, the lack of surprise on behalf of Adam and Eve that the serpent spoke leads me to believe this was the creatures natural state of being. If you look at the curse God laid out against Eve and the Serpent it would seem both are female. These are the same curses we see for the adulterous wife, and Eves curse of childbirth matches that of the innocent woman of the trial. The serpent as Sotah, and Eve as the innocent woman could further identify the serpent as the adulterous female who went astray from Adam.

In Isaiah 34 we see a demon named Lilith, described as a deadly creature with wings. She is said to be a slayer of young children. A snake fused with Lilith make the two "one being" She dwells in tthe midst of the sea sharing her home with angels cast from heaven. Upon the day of judgement the waters of her home will whither and become like molten tar,and the dust brimstone. The entire account in Isaiah matches that of Lilith's legend and association.

So what are your thoughts? Could such a creature exist? Why is this not acknowledged in the church? Or have I missed some simple explanation? My apologize for any typos, poor spelling or grammar as its quite late and It's very possible i'm simply rambling.

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Lilith

mercredi 30 mars 2016

Reading of poetry

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Reading of poetry

untitled

Welcome to the Literature Network Forums forums.

You are currently viewing our boards as a guest which gives you limited access to view most discussions and access our other features. By joining our free community you will have access to post topics, communicate privately with other members (PM), respond to polls, upload content and access many other special features. Registration is fast, simple and absolutely free so please, join our community today!

If you have any problems with the registration process or your account login, please contact contact us or post in the registration help forum for unregistered users.

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untitled

What were Jane's intentions on returning to Thornfield after hearing the "voice"?

I'd love to have reader's views on the following question:

What were Jane's intentions when she returned to Thornfield after hearing Rochester's "voice"?

I've had discussions (elsewhere) with those who are convinced that Jane would stay with Rochester even if she found the status quo (ie. Bertha still alive). After careful examination of the text, I haven't found anything to support such a conclusive view.

Ch. 31
Yes; I feel now that I was right when I adhered to principle and law, and scorned and crushed the insane promptings of a frenzied moment.

Ch. 34 (while considering missionary work with St John)
The case is very plain before me. In leaving England, I should leave a loved but empty land — Mr. Rochester is not there; and if he were, what is, what can that ever be to me? My business is to live without him now: nothing so absurd, so weak as to drag on from day to day, as if I were waiting some impossible change in circumstances, which might reunite me to him.

Ch. 35 (while trying to resist St John's will, moments before "the voice")
I was almost as hard beset by him now as I had been once before, in a different way, by another. I was a fool both times. To have yielded then would have been an error of principle; to have yielded now would have been an error of judgment.

None of this is to say that Jane doesn't struggle with her convictions (just as she did the night she left Rochester). She longs to have knowledge of Rochester's welfare, her letters having gone unanswered. She also has a rather ambiguous exchange with St John earlier the same day:

"God did not give me my life to throw away; and to do as you wish me would, I begin to think, be almost equivalent to committing suicide. Moreover, before I definitively resolve on quitting England, I will know for certain whether I cannot be of greater use by remaining in it than by leaving it."

"What do you mean?"

"It would be fruitless to attempt to explain; but there is a point on which I have long endured painful doubt, and I can go nowhere till by some means that doubt is removed."

"I know where your heart turns and to what it clings. The interest you cherish is lawless and unconsecrated. Long since you ought to have crushed it: now you should blush to allude to it. You think of Mr. Rochester?"

It was true. I confessed it by silence.

"Are you going to seek Mr. Rochester?"

"I must find out what is become of him."

I'm a bit puzzled about what Jane means by "doubts", but I still think she only wants to know that Rochester is alright. Even after hearing the "voice" she muses:

My spirit...is willing to do what is right; and my flesh, I hope, is strong enough to accomplish the will of Heaven, when once that will is distinctly known to me. At any rate, it shall be strong enough to search—inquire—to grope an outlet from this cloud of doubt, and find the open day of certainty.

Jane even tells her cousins that she'll return, although her absence would be "at least four days". On the road to Thornfield, she has an internal war between heart and "monitor", with the monitor saying:

Your master himself may be beyond the British Channel, for aught you know: and then, if he is at Thornfield Hall, towards which you hasten, who besides him is there? His lunatic wife: and you have nothing to do with him: you dare not speak to him or seek his presence. You have lost your labour—you had better go no farther....

And yet, as she nears Thornfield:

Could I but see him!—but a moment! Surely, in that case, I should not be so mad as to run to him? I cannot tell—I am not certain. And if I did—what then? God bless him! What then? Who would be hurt by my once more tasting the life his glance can give me?

So, what do you think? Has hearing the "voice" changed Jane's resolve? Does she sense that the situation has now altered?

Sorry if this has been discussed here before!

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What were Jane's intentions on returning to Thornfield after hearing the "voice"?

What were Jane's intentions on returning to Thornfield after hearing the "voice"?

I'd love to have reader's views on the following question:

What were Jane's intentions when she returned to Thornfield after hearing Rochester's "voice"?

I've had discussions (elsewhere) with those who are convinced that Jane would stay with Rochester even if she found the status quo (ie. Bertha still alive). After careful examination of the text, I haven't found anything to support such a conclusive view.

Ch. 31
Yes; I feel now that I was right when I adhered to principle and law, and scorned and crushed the insane promptings of a frenzied moment.

Ch. 34 (while considering missionary work with St John)
The case is very plain before me. In leaving England, I should leave a loved but empty land — Mr. Rochester is not there; and if he were, what is, what can that ever be to me? My business is to live without him now: nothing so absurd, so weak as to drag on from day to day, as if I were waiting some impossible change in circumstances, which might reunite me to him.

Ch. 35 (while trying to resist St John's will, moments before "the voice")
I was almost as hard beset by him now as I had been once before, in a different way, by another. I was a fool both times. To have yielded then would have been an error of principle; to have yielded now would have been an error of judgment.

None of this is to say that Jane doesn't struggle with her convictions (just as she did the night she left Rochester). She longs to have knowledge of Rochester's welfare, her letters having gone unanswered. She also has a rather ambiguous exchange with St John earlier the same day:

"God did not give me my life to throw away; and to do as you wish me would, I begin to think, be almost equivalent to committing suicide. Moreover, before I definitively resolve on quitting England, I will know for certain whether I cannot be of greater use by remaining in it than by leaving it."

"What do you mean?"

"It would be fruitless to attempt to explain; but there is a point on which I have long endured painful doubt, and I can go nowhere till by some means that doubt is removed."

"I know where your heart turns and to what it clings. The interest you cherish is lawless and unconsecrated. Long since you ought to have crushed it: now you should blush to allude to it. You think of Mr. Rochester?"

It was true. I confessed it by silence.

"Are you going to seek Mr. Rochester?"

"I must find out what is become of him."

I'm a bit puzzled about what Jane means by "doubts", but I still think she only wants to know that Rochester is alright. Even after hearing the "voice" she muses:

My spirit...is willing to do what is right; and my flesh, I hope, is strong enough to accomplish the will of Heaven, when once that will is distinctly known to me. At any rate, it shall be strong enough to search—inquire—to grope an outlet from this cloud of doubt, and find the open day of certainty.

Jane even tells her cousins that she'll return, although her absence would be "at least four days". On the road to Thornfield, she has an internal war between heart and "monitor", with the monitor saying:

Your master himself may be beyond the British Channel, for aught you know: and then, if he is at Thornfield Hall, towards which you hasten, who besides him is there? His lunatic wife: and you have nothing to do with him: you dare not speak to him or seek his presence. You have lost your labour—you had better go no farther....

And yet, as she nears Thornfield:

Could I but see him!—but a moment! Surely, in that case, I should not be so mad as to run to him? I cannot tell—I am not certain. And if I did—what then? God bless him! What then? Who would be hurt by my once more tasting the life his glance can give me?

So, what do you think? Has hearing the "voice" changed Jane's resolve? Does she sense that the situation has now altered?

Sorry if this has been discussed here before!

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What were Jane's intentions on returning to Thornfield after hearing the "voice"?

mardi 29 mars 2016

Could use some help finding the right word to express this idea

Hi all,

I'm currently typing up my personal statement for a medical school application and I could use a little bit of help. I am unable to think of a word to express an idea I am trying to communicate so I figured what better place to try and find this word than a literature forum!

The portion of the statement I am trying to fill is "life has an intrinsic value, at least some of which, I feel is derived from its _______."

The word I am looking for would express that life is a 1 and done deal, you get 1 shot at it and then there aren't any repeats. Transient and ephemeral are words I've considered but just really aren't expressing quite what I'm looking for. If y'all have any ideas, I'd be really grateful.

Thanks a ton in advance!

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Could use some help finding the right word to express this idea

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Mine is a veritable one-way street:
I conceive; I grunt and groan; I sweat;
I bring forth a bawling, bald-headed babe;
It dies; I flare; I scatter the ashes.
Cremation's my primary purpose here!
Let me rake up leaves and pyre them high;
Let me gather kindling and grind the corn;
Let me tear apart phone books and shred old news;
All I need for warmth is a single vesta,
And with it, I'll immolate the world—
As fire-retardant as it seems,
It will still go up in a filthy smoke.

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Crater

I walked in shadows hiding from the moon
sat by the lake and shared my tears.
Together our waters glistened, bathed in dim light,
until the rising sun dried us
into barren salty reflections.
A fog rose
and our grief covered the dawn.
It's dew rested upon our cratered bed,
the blades of grass, the boughs of trees,
the nests of robins, the laughter of children.
In the distance mountains became shadows
and all I was able to see
was the lifelessness of our bellies.

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Crater

lundi 28 mars 2016

Chapter I - Carlos

Here is some writing I do in my spare time. Please read and revise, I'd like an honest rating on my writing ability.

I omitted certain parts.


Chapter 1

Carlos

A roar of thunder echoed throughout the downtown metropolitan of St Catharine’s. Quick, jagged bolts of lightning fell across the evening sky as blankets of rain fell heavily among the many buildings and people that populated the busy streets. The storm howled a heavy cry that intermingled with its unwanted chill, coolly kissing the young man’s cheeks and encompassing every small crevice around him.

His name was Carlos, and he had chosen that name a decade ago. At that time, he awoke in an empty field -next to some spherical object, that presumably, brought him to Earth. Because they did not arrive with names, they were forced to name themselves. Carlos had chosen his carefully and found his name was generally well accepted by society. Although, that time had long since passed, and since then, so much had seemed to remain the same. He was homeless when he arrived and he was homeless now. The misfortunate circumstances of the current time were quite disheartening. However, he grew accustomed to it through the years. Even now, his conscious cared little for the passing storm or for the empty cup beside him –because the inner conflictions of the present time over-rode his care for the public distinction between success and failure.

The incredulous nature of Carlos’s trust towards the humans left him alone in life; a bittersweet journey of both freedom and homelessness. Even now, as he sat slouched against a buildings side, he found it dismaying to trust the humans. Their conflictions with one another over the course of centuries –let alone their conflictions with the ___ over the last decade, left him feeling troubled and somewhat disbelieving in the greater good. In addition to his current predicaments were the issues that all the ___ were burdened with, a lack of identity, racial propaganda and war.

He heard the clink of a coin as it was dropped into his cup; it alone wasn’t sufficient for a meal, but he respected it nonetheless. “Thank-you” He said amiably to the passerby, whom walked briskly away with not so much as a notice of his courtesies.

Carlos ignored the pedestrian and decided to check how much money he had accumulated over the course of the day. He reached into his cup and peered in, with a studying sort of glance. ‘$5.00’, he estimated as he shook the cup around. There were many nickels and dimes, but it would still be sufficient in purchasing a meal. ‘The first and last of the day’ He thought to himself as he stashed the coin inside his pocket and threw the cup way. He stood up and slung his back-pack over his shoulders. There was a burger joint down the street that had specials within his price range. He decided to visit it before heading home.

The passing storm had been relentless through the day –and because of that, the walk through the downtown area of St Catharine’s was rather unpleasant. The crowds were quite thick, and everybody seemed to be quite impatient. People also seemed discourteous to physical boundaries, and often brushed shoulders with the person next to them.

During his walk, the young man began to ponder about his current objective; which to track down the location of another like him. This priority was of utmost importance to him because his documents had shown that she was in possession of one of the Pendants, and because her most presently known location was within the city limits. However, the weather had made tracking her movements extremely difficult, so he decided to dismiss the lead until the storm ceased.

The burger joint was located several blocks down the street. The road it was on intersected with another street underneath a large bridge. The young man took a glance at it, and it reminded him of home. It was better for him to dismiss the ideologies of the undervalued rather than to focus on them -because after grabbing some grub, it would ironically be his next destination.

He arrived to the poorly run business and felt a little turned away as he examined its haggard state. The business name was highlighted by fluorescent tubes, each letter shun a dazzling green, all but one. The building also echoed an ensuing statement of age, from its shady appearance to the decaying bricks that built its foundation. Carlos walked towards the entrance to the building and grasped the front doors rusty handle. He pushed it inwards and walked through, uncertain about whether or not the interiors were as unappealing as the exteriors were. A faint chime echoed from the doorbell as he made his way in. He threw his hood down from his head and quickly rubbed his feet on the doormat –a respectable compliance because of his drenched state.

“I’ll be with you in a second sir,” Said a kindly woman whom was busy tending to the needs of her customers. She walked gracefully, this way and that, and appeared to be quite professional in her duties as a waitress. “Our specials are on the menu.” She explained with a pointed finger towards a menu board. It was a wooden board that hung two meters off the ground, and it was filled with various dishes that he could not afford.

“Just the burger special, thank-you” Carlos said respectfully as he placed his change on the counter.

The total cost was only five dollars, but the type of change that he paid with made the waitress feel quite unsettled. She had to pick it up and count the several dozen nickels and dimes that he had accumulated throughout the day –in addition to a few loonies that he was lucky enough to obtain. Regardless, the waitress gave a nod of her head and didn’t take a second glance at his method of payment. She simply collected the change, counted it and placed it in the cash register.

“It will be a few minutes” She told him as went back to her responsibilities.

Carlos nodded appreciably and turned around. Among the many seats that were taken, there were still a few that were available. ‘Why would anyone go out during a storm like this?’ He thought to himself as he walked towards one of the empty leather stools. He sat down and stretched out his tight muscles. The stormy day had grown even more strenuous when he realized that he was broke. He figured that he still had some money from the day before, but when he woke up he found that it was gone. Because of that, he was forced to resort to beggary as a means of feeding himself. He was an ___ and he could have resorted to stealing and forcefully seeing that his basic needs were met, but his moral tendencies always convinced him otherwise.

It was a few minutes after arriving to the shoddy restaurant that he heard the word ____ mentioned. He glanced towards the location of the sound and found that a local news station was currently airing. He heard the faint whispers and muttered words of everyone around the room as they became attentive to the broadcast. Even Carlos found it quite intriguing, and decided to pay more attention to the television.

“Welcome to the show” Said a welcoming young man. He appeared to be the host of whatever show was currently airing.

Carlos was able to discern that it was some sort of interview, probably about the ___. That determination made him feel quite bothered, because there had been many disputes between them and the humans over the course of the last decade, and even more troubled matters of the present time.

“You claim that you have evidence that proves the hostile intentions of the ___; am I correct?” The interviewer asked as he read from a scripted paper.
“Yes, there is no question that they are beings of a different nature. Because of that, they are capable of things one would consider impossible, let`s see here...” Replied the interviewee as he scuffled through some papers. “It has been documented that the average ___ is capable of expelling destructive force that can level a city block, and there are rumours of a few ___ being so powerful that they can level entire cities. And they are allowed to walk free among our city streets, unaccounted for and unrestrained.” He explained towards the audience.

He appeared to be a rather well dressed and educated young man. But his intentions for being interviewed were obviously quite deceiving.

“I have collected numerous testimonies from civilians and law enforcement agencies from around the globe that acknowledges the danger they impose upon our societies. Militaries have even reported coming into violent conflicts with these beings,” He explained as he handed a handful of papers to the television host. “What their intentions are remains to be seen, but we do not have any information that shows they are trying to come to terms of peace with us.” He explained.

“So do you believe that they are a danger to the human population?” The interviewer asked curiously. He appeared to be quite doubtful about the opinion of the younger man.

“Of course,” Replied the guest nonchalantly. “They have exacted violence acts upon us as opposed to dealings of peace. One can only determine that they believe themselves to be above, not only us, but any jurisdiction that they reside in.” He elaborated with a pointed finger towards one of his reports.

Carlos acknowledged that most of what he was saying was true, but it didn’t relieve him of his doubts regarding the humans and their inability to see anything else beyond their own selfish existence. They also never tried to work alongside the ___, so the interviewee’s statements appeared to be rather hypocritical.

“You argue that their intentions are problematic for society -and that they do not deserve social rights or recognition as civilians, but these are merely claims without any supporting evidence thus far.” The interviewer exclaimed in a rather defensive manner. He appeared to be supporting the ___ on national television -and Carlos respected that, even though it probably mattered little whose side he was on.

“Perhaps I can show you?” Retorted the guest as he extended his arm towards a large T.V. It stood between the interviewer and interviewee. “This tape was recorded on the eastern part of the globe, and clearly displays their hostile intentions.” He explained as he inserted a disc into the DVD player.

The lights in the news room dimmed and the camera zoomed in on the television screen. Suddenly, there were quick jagged shots of a third world country. Explosions muffled the voices of people as they scrambled about in every direction. A language that Carlos did not recognize was continually uttered with growing intensity. The same words were repeated over and over. Suddenly, a figure came into view. It was definitely a ___, but it was exhibiting incredible power. Numerous bullets were being fired at it, but it was seemingly unaffected. Large bodies of energy flourished from the palms of its hands, and a red aura covered the exterior of its body. Then, it exalted an astonishing scream and shot the energy from its hands. Several police vehicles in front of it was blown into nothingness. The explosion was quite severe because nothing was left of the law enforcement officials. The ___ turned towards the camera holder, whom began to run in the opposite direction. The camera went black as the news report came on again.

“Your burger sir” Said waitress unexpectedly as she brought his daily special on a platter. She put it in front of him and asked him if she could help him with anything else.
He shook his head and quietly asked for it to go. The news report had invigorated his curiosity about the conflicts between the humans and the ___; evidently, they were escalating. Once he received his bagged burger he placed it inside his backpack and made for the door.

The pelting rain had dispersed slightly more, but with less intensity. The raindrops weren’t as numerous as before and appeared to be further apart from one another. He ascertained that he might be able to make it home before the sun could fully set. So he quickly made his way down the busy streets of St Catharine’s. He kept his pace relatively slow, as a means to not draw unnecessary attention to himself.

It was a few minutes thence that he arrived to the deplorable site of what he called home. Before him stood a bridge and underneath it was a large concrete slab that stood adjacent to two more slabs on either side, both of which served as pillars for the bridge above. These concrete blocks stood twenty feet off the ground, so it would be exceptionally difficult for someone to try and steal his belongings.

With a quick jump, he grasped the top of the concrete slab and pulled himself up. He then crawled into the narrow corridor that he called home, and sat down on his rugged mat. He heard the sounds of the passing cars above, and it was rather annoying because he heard this day and night. It was a frequent annoyance that never ceased to displease him.

It was here that he set up his residence. Whatever he needed to make the place more homely, he was able to find without resorting to criminal indulgences. He had a large carpet that extended 10 feet in all directions, as well as a desk, chair and posters that he put up as furnishings. Whenever a storm occurred, he was forced to set up a tarp and level it out in such a way that it funnelled the water down into empty streets below.
It was here that he spent countless nights -going through old notes and making new ones, trying to locate any of the Pendants. He was searching for any answers that would benefit his purpose, and possibly, all of mankind. The true question that always lingered on the back of his mind was what are we? Who are we? Aliens, some called them. But ‘people’ was the terminology that he preferred. The only physical differences between them and the humans were their eyes; which sun a dazzling green whenever they tapped into their latent abilities; their physical capabilities –which far surpassed that of any species, human or animal, and lastly, ___ tattoos that populated most of their body and parts of their face. The distinction was quite clear. One had only had to glance at their eyes to see the difference –and because of that, he often wore his hood to conceal his attractive burdens.
Carlos kicked off his shoes and sat back. He was exhausted and he was growing more impatient day by day. During the last few weeks he had been trying to track the whereabouts of another ___, but he often found it difficult. This particular ____ that he was tracking was a female whom went by the name Aaliyah. ‘Creative’, he thought to himself as he began to consider the name. She mustn’t have been very powerful; otherwise he would have found her by now.

He picked up the burger that he bought and began to chew it as he read a portion of his reports. His hair was still wet from the storm and it dribbled a few pellets onto the paper; of which had some very important details. Some information included her name, and that this individual was a bearer of one of the Pendants; and that her presently known location was St Catharine’s. He folded the paper back up and tossed it aside.

‘I’ve got to find her first’ He thought to himself as finished the burger. If she still had a Pendant in her possession than he might be able to persuade her to work with him if she found out that he had one as well. If not, than he could simply take it from her. However, there was still no telling where the other five were. But that was a matter for another time. He had looked her up on various social media sites and found that she didn’t spend any time online. He even broke into a police vehicle and used their computers to search for a match to her name, he found nothing. So he had no choice but to resort his senses in an attempt to locate her presence -but for some reason, her energy levels never stood out amongst the humans. His senses were greatly in tune but apparently they weren’t strong enough –that, or she just didn’t have a strong presence to begin with.

He dug through his pockets and reached for the Pendant. He pulled it out and held it by its chain. The beauty of it was magnificent to behold. Even in the midst of all the darkness it continued to shine a potent glow. It was faint, but apparent. The weight of it made it difficult to hold –even for a ___. He was proud to own it, but with it came violent disputes between himself and the Canadian Government. He often found himself as the focus of their military operations. They had tracked him down all over Canada -from Halifax to Vancouver, and they were currently in pursuit of this Pendant. He didn’t know what it could do, but he suspected it to be something of great importance.

He tried to fasten the chain around his neck, but it mysteriously fell off –as though it had passed through his neck. He knew this was impossible, but mysteriousness of the event was quite intriguing. As far as Carlos understood, there wasn’t a known ___ or human that was capable of wearing these artefacts. Throughout the last decade or so, he had offered various people the opportunity to keep the Pendant if they could wear it, but every one of them failed.

Angrily, he threw the Pendant and it skidded across the pavement. He raised his hand and channelled a small ball of energy from it. It lingered a few inches from the middle of his palm and danced with a ceaseless motion, like that of a fire. He then closed his hand fiercely and the energy dispersed into nothingness. He found himself in the darkness once again.
Suddenly, he caught a quick sense of something. It was a powerful presence that stood out from the population, but for some reason, the magnitude of its potency had doubled. He immediately stood up and walked forward a few feet. He placed his hand on one of the concrete slabs and let his head fall as he closed his eyes and tried to focus.

There it was again.

He could definitely feel something, some large and powerful presence that wasn`t too far off, but he couldn`t determine which area in particular that it was coming from. Was it the ___ that he was looking for? He couldn’t be certain.

Once he was able to focus his senses more efficiently, he determined that it wasn’t just one ____, but two. One was definitely greater than the other, which in turn, was significantly weaker. He made the decision to pursue this lead and he quickly grabbed whatever belongings that he needed for the remainder of the day. After taking a quick glance back towards his dwellings, he made his way towards the location of the weaker ___ –unknowing that this would be the final time that he would ever lay eyes on it.

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Chapter I - Carlos

A man who couldn't love.

Hello! After some very helpful info and some practice I have come to(what I think to be) my best poem. Please leave any insights or info that could help me progress!

A man who couldn't love

Each one taller than the next.
Their peaceful existence shuns that of humanity.
The sun sprinkles through the skyline made up of harmony and atmosphere.
They capture what he couldn’t, love.
A forest made by the divine, surely he isn't worthy.
Peaceful days happen here, one he certainly needs.
A deep sensation comes to him with a voice.
What you desire, I desire.
Could you be clearer?
Give what you know you can’t.
I cannot understand.
Then I give you the greatest gift.
The sensation, is named.
Fully formed I give my heartbeat to the lowly rabbit.
Reciprocated, reciprocated, reciprocated.
Love reciprocates itself.

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A man who couldn't love.

A Gang of Geese

The geese gang gathered

to listen to their leader,
the loudest goose of all—
Honk-honk-honk!

The Goose Leader told them

that they could live triumphant
beyond the threat of butchers—
Honk-honk-honk!

The gang picked up the war cry,

and soon like blatty klaxons,
they trumpeted the message—
Honk-honk-honk!

The Goose Leader led them

directly to the kill-yard
where knives were being sharpened—
Honk-honk-honk!

They waddled to their slaughter,

that clueless gang of gee-hoots;
they only knew one notion:
Honk-honk-honk!

Poor little goosies! Not a brain among them.

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A Gang of Geese

Let's language exchange!

Let's language exchange!
Hi, everyone! Who i am? Hm, i am a man who like to read books and comics.
And i like to meet new people. I started a learn the English language, read the novell Airport by Arthur Hailey (in english).
A few years ago i read "Sister Carrie" by Theodore Dreiser (in russian, but i will find it in english and will read again).

I invite everyone to my skype vladimir_tango for discussion about literature and other things (like cooking, about your city, museums, famous places).

Best regards, Valdimir

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Let's language exchange!

Onions

In tenth grade Mrs. Repko
taught me that analyzing language
is analogous to peeling an onion.
Surface-level understanding
is the onion’s outer skin,
and empathy
is the burrowed core.
How to read

with understanding. This is empathy.
Wrinkles will appear on faces
that look like layers of an onion.
Some will fold the forehead
when an eyebrow is raised,
others will peel back lips
to show teeth. How to love:
close the laptop, open the door.
Drag a finger across someone’s palm.
Follow the lines down to the wrist.
Read the veins beneath the
surface of skin.
Understand that this is how the body lives,
every pathway
leading to the heart.

Josh takes his shirt off, his stomach is flat.
In his room, dim from the orange-lighting
of the lamp near his bed, hot from the thermostat
he keeps at eighty-degrees,
I feel invasive. Like I was never meant
to see this.
Gay eyes on a straight body.
I read him anyway.
Biceps: skin. Nipples: skin.
Shoulders: skin.
I wish I could run my hand
down his chest
and feel the wrinkles
I cannot see.

Mrs. Repko brought an onion to class
and asked how it was different from
the onion-model that she kept on her desk.
She let us feel the onion. Its bumps.
Its ridges. Its smell.
Its skin reminded me of paper.
Its bulbous shape and reddish color
reminded me of the heart.

Once, when I asked her why she was crying,
my grandmother told me
that cutting onions makes your eyes water.

Once, when she asked me why I was crying,
I told my step-mother
that a boy I liked
didn’t want to be friends with me anymore.
This is how I told her that I was gay.

Finally coming to terms
with my sexuality,
I stayed up late on school nights
writing poetry. It felt like peeling
back my skin to get to the sour core.
I’ve learned these things:
writing is a practice of self-love,
empathy is reading somebody’s self,
and onionskin is a type of paper.

This year, in the dim light
of Josh’s room, I pace, looking
for a calmness I never had.
He sits at the table with his green laptop,
knees pulled up to his chest,
black socks resting on the chair.

He looks so calm in this light.
His brown eyes are stoic gems
that become easier to read
the more I look at them.

From my pocket, I pull out
some folded papers.
What are these?

These are poems about you, Josh.
Please read them. I wrote them for me,
but now they’re for you. I wrote them
because they’re the only way I could love you.
Here is a model of my heart. Please touch it.

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Onions

dimanche 27 mars 2016

You Are His (Christian Audience) Exuse Grammar

Even before you were born, you are His.
When you were in your mother’s womb, you are His.
When your little feet pitter pattered as a child, you are His.
As you walk in this life all grown, you are His.
God cradles every precious part of you in his welcoming arms. Sometimes we think it can’t get any worse. Sometimes we think it can’t get any better. Whatever the rhythm your life is playing at the moment in this Holy symphony, just know God hears your voice in His orchestra and calls you His own.
God singles you out from the crowd, steps back, and looks at you in awe. We are the clay and He is the potter. He makes us beautiful within our spirit and soul. All through our life Heaven is making everything come together for your good and Gods glory in different ways. There will be bumps, valleys, mountains, but just know they are there to make you stronger in faith. God will breathe life into a thirsty soul, quenching every part of you to make an everlasting stream through your being. May you not keep your joy, love, and grace for yourself, but to spread it to all who are open minded and that have a willing heart to receive Jesus.
Don’t be hard on yourself. Surely as many drops are there in the ocean, God forgives as much. Grace will never leave you, it is enough. The more hurt you are the more God will help you. We can raise our white flag, surrendering to the love of God into our lives and others. If you feel guilty by the weight of the world on your shoulders, just remember you don’t have to any more because Jesus has already conquered the world. The cross has won the war so why carry extra weight when we don’t need to? Shake off your heavy chains and shackles. Breathe in the new breath of mercy every morning and go to bed singing a thankful lullaby for God’s grace and comfort.
Like lightning during a storm, God will flash His grace upon you and you shall feel the electric love throughout your inner most being. Like the rain, you will be washed from head to toe from all regrets and burdens. Like the thunder we hear God’s rumbling voice of approval. We lie down looking up at the blameless clouds passing by as we wonder if we could ever be that perfect, but we know when we go home, we shall.

Jesus, we pray to you.
Help us spread your ministry in every way possible.
Fill our goblet until it overflows with your blessings.
Help us not to throw away our lives in disgust, but to cherish every moment.
Our lives are a gift so let us bring glory to your name through it.
Lord, thank you for a life of wonder, peace, and joy.
Amen.

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You Are His (Christian Audience) Exuse Grammar

Villete

Hi,

I finished Villete - a true masterpiece. I just read it for the first time - and spent the past 2 1/2 hours trying to wrap my mind around it.

It's funny, though, because while I greatly admire the book, I can't say I loved it. It didn't make me smile. Yet, the amount of involvement I felt as a reader is a true testament to my favorite author's genius.

A few thoughts though:

The character of Paulina greatly puzzled me. I found her to be a bit creepy as a child, and an oddly immature adult. I found it interesting that she gained Lucy's esteem. She praised Paulina... for what? Paulina really didn't appear to have much of a depth of character at all. It seems to me that her only credentials were her beauty, and lack of arrogance in comparison to her cousin. How did she win Lucy's affection?

And even when she married the handsome Dr. John in the end, it gave me an aura of a "prince and princess together at last." Miss Fanshaw appears to be the ugly stepsister. Yet, again, other than being quieter and more submissive, Paulina is strikingly similar to Miss Fanshaw. Both are pretty, doted upon, and spoiled. Dr. John pretty much falls for both of them based on their looks. I don't understand why Lucy gave Paulina so much credit.

The Ending:

The ending was a difficult thing. It was disappointing and infuriating, yet, I don't think it should have ended any other way. Lucy was not meant to reach happiness, I feel. She had a rough life, and I feel like giving her a happy ending would strip away from the authenticity of the book. On the other hand, killing off Paul Emanual would have definitively made it too sad. Leaving the ambiguous nature was suitable, though, I'll admit, greatly frustrating.

Another question:

In chapter XLI, M. Emanuel referred to Madame Beck as "femme" when he was trying to tell her to leave him and Lucy alone. Now I don't speak French, but upon entering that word on my trusty Google translate, I got that that word means "wife." Does anyone have another translation, speak French, or have an explanation for why he would refer to Madame Beck as that?

All in all, this book was truly remarkable - unlike any other I have read. I am surprised that it has not received more recognition. Its unpredictable nature and depth of feeling were great. I also liked how Bronte had a few different stories intertwined with Lucy's, and that they all saw completion. Paulina and Dr. John - the "perfects"; Miss Fanshawe and de Hamel - the "shallows"; and of course our chaotic Lucy and Paul Emanuel.

Any thoughts?

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Villete

Just Hello

Welcome to the Literature Network Forums forums.

You are currently viewing our boards as a guest which gives you limited access to view most discussions and access our other features. By joining our free community you will have access to post topics, communicate privately with other members (PM), respond to polls, upload content and access many other special features. Registration is fast, simple and absolutely free so please, join our community today!

If you have any problems with the registration process or your account login, please contact contact us or post in the registration help forum for unregistered users.

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Just Hello

o. henry short stories

Welcome to the Literature Network Forums forums.

You are currently viewing our boards as a guest which gives you limited access to view most discussions and access our other features. By joining our free community you will have access to post topics, communicate privately with other members (PM), respond to polls, upload content and access many other special features. Registration is fast, simple and absolutely free so please, join our community today!

If you have any problems with the registration process or your account login, please contact contact us or post in the registration help forum for unregistered users.

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o. henry short stories

Greetings!

I'm Anthony. I'm intrigued about TLN, but the colors are messing with my eyes. I am curious about a few things after browsing LitNet. You have a large community, but many dead threads. There are also abandoned groups here as well. The age range of our members can play an important role with member activity. I can understand school can detour members off the grid for some time. I graduated from the University of Connecticut with a B.A. in Political Science. I've been working in retail and education. I became a Bilingual Tutor at East Hartford High School assisting ESL students after working with a temp agency as a substitute teacher. I am looking forward to meeting everyone (active) here.

Thanks,

Anthony

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Greetings!

in which countries is poetry a way of life/ most appreciated?

Based on what I know of Iran, Iran must surely be one of them. Every Iranian knows at least several poets and has an opinion of those poets (eg. Firdowsi, Sadi, Khayyam, Rumi). Poems are read in criminal court proceedings, start off speeches, and even feature in military music.

The reasons for poetry's appreciation may be because poets are considered national heroes by saving Persians from becoming fully Arabised- unlike their neighbours- by maintaining the Persian language under Arab, Turkic and Islamic colonialism. Persia's history is a long one of military defeats, so there is little celebration of heroic military exploits other than in the mythical Shahnameh. Islamic prohibitions on music, painting and sculpture left only architecture, calligraphy and poetry as artistic pursuits. Poetry is also compulsory from primary school to university, making it inescapable.

Australia in contrast doesn't have the same widespread appreciation as it doesn't feature as a way of life (sport does). Most Australians couldn't explain a poem and wouldn't know the woman on the $10 dollar bill is poet Mary Gilmore. I'm talking about the masses, not select circles of society.

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in which countries is poetry a way of life/ most appreciated?

samedi 26 mars 2016

A Hill of Beans

All of Man's works—from the crudest trinket

to the greatest cathedral;
all the writhing and writing,
the bustle and turmoil,
the empires built and the cities destroyed,
the battles waged and the peaces pursued;
all the burnings and bombings,
the freak advances
and the slow motion stumbles—

Do not amount to a fractional fraction,

a filing, an infinitesimal fig

Compared to the sprawl of the omniverse
In time and space and epoptic truths
As seen through a lens

(inner worlds and outer)

As glimpsed through a theorem

(mathematical sooths)

As felt through an insight and scholarly discourse
Wherein empirical wisdom reigns;
And still nothing matters! For the engine of everything—
The stars and spirals and gravity wells—
Will erase our commissions to the leastest and lastest:
The death-rattle thoughts of the final survivor.

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A Hill of Beans

Clean and Humorous Jokes

Peace be on you.
You are welcome to write clean jokes here.

Once upon a time when bicycle was a new addition to the world. Only rich could have it. A wealthy person bought a bicycle for his son. The boy learned how to ride and started to practice. One day he went far away from home and passed by a village and waved hand to villagers.

The villagers thought some kind of supernatural thing has caught the boy and he is kicking violently to get rid of it and also asking for help. They took rods and whatever and ran to save the boy.

The boy, when saw people with rods, paddled more and more, the villagers ran faster and faster. Eventually they caught the afreet and boy was rescued.

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Clean and Humorous Jokes

Crime Fiction Lovers! Need help!!

im a little puzzled ace---haven't you already articulated the argument? that there is a stylistic difference between the two country's approach to crime fiction?

I wonder too what you mean by "hard boiled?"

your post is also making me think of Jeffery deaver, an American author who writes crime fiction and as they overwhelmingly focus on forensics (at least the Lincoln rhyme books), they are very "puzzle" oriented.

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Crime Fiction Lovers! Need help!!

Rain

sitting on a grassy hill
to observe the clouds
phantasmagoria of crazy
three ring circus
gallery of facial contortions
aliens freneticly twisting
into strange sea creatures

and then the rains

but under a tree
leafy lattice of lacy faces
vegetables from Venus
knights in battle
a galleon becomes
a faded photograph of
starship cruiser

and then it clears

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Rain

Easter in Sweden

Sweden is a Lutheran country, I don't know if this is relevant or not but Good Friday used to be a sort of day of mourning when I first moved there. Even the Thursday preceding it, called Skärtorsdag ( meaning "Cut Thursday") was a time of mourning. Funereal music on the radio, all entertainment closed, people went about with long faces. I was very surprised! By the late 1960s this was coming to an end. Now the whole holiday period is one of eating and celebration. A time to eat roast chicken, buy cream filled bakelser including Semlor (see http://ift.tt/1K2vekr), painting and decorating eggs, and when children expect presents, usually chocolates. The semlor get more creamy and larger every year. The contrast between the mourning for Christ on the cross and the resurrection is no longer there. The long weekend (from Cut Thursday to Easter Monday) is also used to travel to the mountains and go skiing.

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Easter in Sweden

vendredi 25 mars 2016

What do you make of this?

Chapter: 509 (DBZ 315), P11.4-6
Context: as Goku prepares to fight Boo
Goku: “Alrii~~iight. I’d better go all out right from the start…! If we get done in, then the entire universe will go ‘poof’…”
Vegeta: “Let me see this ‘Super Saiyan 3’ thing with my own eyes…”
Goku: “Is that alright? You just might not get your turn…

I'm in a debate with someone at the moment and he says that Goku intended to go all out from the start, which means he intended to use Super Saiyan 3 from the beginning due to his comment of 'I'd better go all out from the start', whereas I argued that Vegeta's comment of 'Let me see this 'Super Saiyan 3' comment is Vegeta's admission to using Super Saiyan 3, because Goku than asks 'Is that alright?', which means he's considering his feelings because he may not get a turn to fight.

Who would you say is correct in this? And if you agree with my interpretation can you provide a explanation as to why?

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What do you make of this?

feelings and poetry

how should poetry make you feel?

the desire to draw
saddness out of
claw
is to see it take a blow
and poetry does it
though
justifyingly so

that is how I see or interpret poetry.
nothing serious just something to mingle with so time is fluid and easy to true it,

any thoughts most welcome

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feelings and poetry

Literary Talks

Hey everybody! I've just registered now. I'm studying American Culture & Literature at university. Is there anyone who I can talk with, about America, American literature, and world literature? In addition to the friendship, it will also be a great experience for me. Im looking for your messages, thank you!

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Literary Talks

angle

Welcome to the Literature Network Forums forums.

You are currently viewing our boards as a guest which gives you limited access to view most discussions and access our other features. By joining our free community you will have access to post topics, communicate privately with other members (PM), respond to polls, upload content and access many other special features. Registration is fast, simple and absolutely free so please, join our community today!

If you have any problems with the registration process or your account login, please contact contact us or post in the registration help forum for unregistered users.

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angle

Question about Saki's work

Hi everybody. I have some questions about saki's works.

One is from "The image of the lost soul".
There is a following description.

"Every evening it crept trustfully into its corner against the stone breast of the image, and the
darkling eyes seemed to keep watch over its slumbers."

What does darkling mean? Does it mean that it was getting dark and became difficult to see everything? Or does it mean that the the image gave a brooding eye?

Another is from "Clovis on the alleged romance of business".
At the last of the story there is the following description.

"He is buried by the thousand in Kensal Green and other
large cemeteries"

Maybe, it is strange to interpret as the thousand people buried his bone in Kensal Green AND other
large cemeteries. Does it mean that his bone is burred in the same way as thousand people who are buried in Kensal Green or other large cemeteries?

Could you please give me some advice?

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Question about Saki's work

Literature is a part of our lives.

Hello, I am re-introducing myself on this new account of the same name as an account I used in 2015.

Literature is a permanent fixture in my life. I like all sorts of written works. When I was younger I leaned into the horror side of literature. Since then my tastes have changed a lot and I lean on the countering side of subject matters, preferring novels without the horror element in them. Becoming a serious writer has a lot to do with that change, noting that the things I write about tend to directly influence my life. In fact, it is this singular point that I base many of my writing choices on today, that if what I write might manifest itself in my life then I must write on the lighter side of things and steer my creations in the direction that I want my life to go. I don't want my life sliding through a slough of tragedy, so I write a lot of things that have no problems in them. You can imagine the dilemma that puts me in when writing because if the story is going to go somewhere, solving a problem really needs to sit at the center of it all. This way of approaching what I write has really been a catalyst for creativity. It's like a dance, writing. That's how I see it. I'm never short on ideas. In fact, I never really experienced this thing called writer's block. I guess you would call writer's block a sort of 'brain freeze'. I could only imagine the disappointment of having writer's block. Now, I know, this blurb about me isn't cut into paragraphs but that's okay. This ain't a test. I guess the only way you could fail to introduce yourself to someone is forget your name or miss the handshake. That would look pretty retarded. Lol.

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Literature is a part of our lives.

jeudi 24 mars 2016

Dull pain, totalitarianism, communism and shackled artists: fiction books

Hello! I'm quite new to these forums, to say the least — this is my first post, and it is by this means that I give any shape to my request.

I'm interested in totalitarianism and communism, but not in that extreme (although totalitarianism by itself stands out as extreme), excessively violent way, I'm not thinking about the practices of Schutzstaffel or the Moscow Trials, but rather about a subdued, and still extremely efficient nonetheless, dictatorship, about a system in which there no longer is a need for physical violence, as the population was inoculated with fear long ago, and now the doctrine is living on this synthetic fear.

I'm not trying to do any socio-political analysis, as it really is not my specialty, and I merely possess a superficial knowledge of the phenomenon; I'm not searching for a view upon the society as a whole living under such a law, instead for a society that is reflected on the individual. I think I could say I'm looking for a subjective novel. What really captivates me is the experience of pain, of torment, of a dull pain, precisely, so I really want to read about someone's life through such a way of government.

I could say I'm looking at the late 70s and 80s of Eastern Berlin, and perhaps of the entire Eastern Bloc, except maybe USSR, because there the situation was a tad more traditional. I think I may apply to synesthesia, as it's through it that I can explain best what I'm after. Now, as I've already mentioned, what I write doesn't have to reflect the reality, so my view could be more or less distorted. When Eastern Bloc occurs me, I automatically think of Plattenbauten and neighbourhoods with a lot of grey tones and concrete, with appartement blocks that look identical and are often beautified with poplars, with tall and grey and empty, devoid of leaves poplars. Also, I imagine a long, cold, but bearable, hallway, dimly lit, with shriveled oil paint on the walls and some concrete mosaic on the floor. Also, I imagine some young people staying on this hallway and smoking some poor quality cigarettes, contemplating their dull life that consists solely of routine. The light I think is very important, I'm fascinated by that hazy, yellow light that, quite paradoxically, while illuminating a space, also creates some sort of penumbra. And the smell, yes, the smell, the smell has to be one associated with the mechanical industry, with machines, with oil, and gas, and coffee, cheap coffee, preferably spilled over old, yellowed pages. Oh, and some typewriters, carefully registered typewriters so that not anyone can have one and write whatever he wants.

I want to read about that pressure which is permanent and ubiquitous, but that never kills anyone, instead merely weakens, without having any climax, the sort of pressure that slowly undermines everything and restrain creativity. A pressure that everyone is conscious of, but of which no-one speaks out of fear.
Any idea in which book could I find some of these characteristics?

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Dull pain, totalitarianism, communism and shackled artists: fiction books

Islam and Modern Terrorism - The Divine Solution.

Peace be on everyone at this forum and all other human as well.
These days, almost on daily basis, somewhere in the world, innocent people are losing their lives in blasts done by planted devices, suicide bombers or by any other way. Unfortunately, most of such life-takers label themselves as Muslims.

A German who remained with terrorists, said that when he reminded the fighters that most chapters of the Koran began with the words "Allah... most merciful".
"I asked: Where is the mercy? I never got the real answer."
Source: http://ift.tt/1sTsB6t

So where these people who even does not their creed, come from? where they get funds from? what is their ultimate motive?......Answers to these questions may have surprising dimensions.

Islam begins with the idea of universal God, as Holy Quran says:
[ch1:v2] All praise for Allah the Lord of all people (all worlds).

Quran calls about Prophet of Islam, he was for all people.
[7:159] Say, ‘O mankind! truly I am a Messenger to you all from Allah to Whom belongs the kingdom of the heavens and the earth. There is no God but He. He gives life, and He causes death. So believe in Allah and His Messenger, the Prophet, the Immaculate one, who believes in Allah and His words; and follow him that you may be rightly guided.’

Thus a true Muslim cannot harm others.

Holy Prophet (peace and blessings of Allah be on him) foretold that faith would become very weak in latter days. Quran and he mentioned various signs of latter days; advancement of knowledge, human right awareness, moral decay, heavenly signs etc.

Holy Quran
[ch62:v3] He it is Who has raised among the Unlettered people a Messenger from among themselves who recites unto them His verses, and purifies them, and teaches them the Book and wisdom, although they had been, before, in manifest misguidance;

[ch62:v4]And among others from among them, who have not yet joined them. He is the Mighty, the Wise.

About the above verse,
The Companion Abu Hurairah (may Allah be pleased with him) said:
One day we were sitting with Holy Prophet when Surah Jumua (chapter 62) was revealed. I enquired from the Holy Prophet, Who are the people to whom the words, "And among others who have not yet joined them" Salman, the Persian was sitting among us. Upon my repeated asking him the same question the Holy Prophet put his hand on Salman and said;If faith were to go up to the Pleiades, a man from these would surely find it.
[Ref: Book of Hadith, Bukhari]

While one Islam is on decline, there is another Islam which is on the rise, as per above prophesies.
http://ift.tt/1VJRQsX

This revival of Islam asks its followers to respect life of all other human, to talk to everyone to bring them closer to God, to worship God such that their worship translate into peace for all humanity, to pray for all humanity, and not use force for faith. This era demands discussion and use of pen and prayers.

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Islam and Modern Terrorism - The Divine Solution.

franz kafka's diary

Hi this is my first time in the forum. I have a question: I think I read a long time ago in his diary and incident that happened to him in his childhood (although not sure). It was something that happened to me as a child. His grandparent had died ande was in a room with a casket and his mother asked him to go to the casket and kiss it and ask for his grandparent's forgiveness. If anyone has seen this statement, I'd appreciate hearing from them and which diary and date. Thanks. jaklug

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franz kafka's diary

mercredi 23 mars 2016

hello to our community?

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hello to our community?

Hello there to everyone

Welcome to the Literature Network Forums forums.

You are currently viewing our boards as a guest which gives you limited access to view most discussions and access our other features. By joining our free community you will have access to post topics, communicate privately with other members (PM), respond to polls, upload content and access many other special features. Registration is fast, simple and absolutely free so please, join our community today!

If you have any problems with the registration process or your account login, please contact contact us or post in the registration help forum for unregistered users.

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Hello there to everyone

New to this forum

Welcome to the Literature Network Forums forums.

You are currently viewing our boards as a guest which gives you limited access to view most discussions and access our other features. By joining our free community you will have access to post topics, communicate privately with other members (PM), respond to polls, upload content and access many other special features. Registration is fast, simple and absolutely free so please, join our community today!

If you have any problems with the registration process or your account login, please contact contact us or post in the registration help forum for unregistered users.

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New to this forum

untitled

Robins, doves and catbirds serenading in the park—
Aimless lilting trills and doleful coos—
Vestiges of fighting songs, no doubt,
From their ancestors, the earthbound basilisks.
What is the import of their mordant phrases,
These to-whitty tweets that pierce the evening air?
Are they remnants from some ancient tragedy,
A birdy Iliad or saurian epic ode?
Or are they merely madness set to music,
The bleats of feathered idiots in lust?

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untitled

Easter Collection 2016

CRUCIFIX

You were the love
Of the world
And we nailed you to a cross
We tried to kill love
With nail in hand
And spear in flesh
But we failed
You pleaded for us
Apologised for us
Then you died for us
You’re the love
Of the world

LET’S GET THIS STRAIGHT ONCE AND FOR ALL # 1

Let’s get this straight once and for all
Easter does not commemorate the time
When Jesus hid eggs in the gardens
Of Gethsemane for the disciples to find

MORNGY THURSDAY

At a soup kitchen, they ran out of food
Due to a basic error in their sums
And tempers flared among the homeless
In fact there were a lot of hot cross bums

FOR A FEW SILVER COINS

One of the twelve
Chosen Apostles
Possessed of Evil?
Or pawn of Christ
Judas Iscariot met
High Priest Caiaphas
And left the temple
With the Sanhedrin bribe
“Thirty pieces of silver”
Bought an apostle
And Christ’s fate was sealed
For after the last supper
In the gardens of Gethsemane
Judas Iscariot delivered
His kiss of betrayal
Condemning them both
By that single act
To an untimely death
Judas by his own hand
And Christ on the cross

MY SON WAS A MASTER EASTER EGG HUNTER

My son was a master Easter Egg Hunter
From the time he was a few years old
And had it become an Olympic event,
He would have easily have won the Gold

GETHSEMANE

In that favoured retreat
Of Gethsemane’s garden
Did the Prince of peace
In his agonies
Sweat blood upon
That fertile ground
Forsaken by his father
Doubting his destiny
And how wretchedly betrayed
By that simple Judas kiss

EASTER PARADOX

One of the paradoxes of family life
Is that kids will never admit to parents
That they don’t believe in the Easter Bunny
While chocolate eggs accompany events

VIA DOLOROSA

The path that Jesus walked
Carrying his cross with him
Was the Via Dolorosa
In the old city of Jerusalem
It was the way of sorrows
The way of grief
The way of suffering
For his life so brief

EASTER BUNNY

About the Easter bunny
I think it’s really funny
That a big white rabbit
Is in the unusual habit
Of delivering Easter eggs
On his funny rabbit legs
I think it must change
And we must rearrange
So for delivering at any rate
Eggs made of choco-late
Employ a chocolate chicken
That’s what I reckon

LET’S GET THIS STRAIGHT ONCE AND FOR ALL # 2

Let’s get this straight once and for all
Easter Day does not commemorate
The a day in the gardens Of Gethsemane
When Jesus turned rabbits into chocolate

ON A HILL IN CALVARY

On a hill in Calvary
In a savage unenlightened time
Nailed upon a rugged cross
By brutal hand
They thought to kill a man
To snuff out his light
That light of purest love
Unquenchable, indestructible
On that hill in Calvary
He died for us
The shadow of that cross
Cast upon the bloody land
Was an illuminating shadow
That spread light and love
Shining across millennia
Unquenchable, indestructible
On that hill in Calvary
He died for us
In that savage unenlightened time
Murdered by brutal hand
Humiliated, dehumanized
But through his love for us
And his sacrifice for us
He redeemed us

EASTER EGG HUNT

When it comes to hiding the eggs
In the garden at Easter
I can actually hide my own eggs now
Thanks to Dementia

EASTER ISN’T JUST ABOUT EASTER EGGS

Easter isn’t just about Easter eggs
I have a far deeper meaning in mind
Easter marks the death and resurrection
Of the saviour of all mankind

EASTER PARADE

In your Easter Bonnet
With all the frills upon it,
You’re never going to wear it?
In the Easter parade.
We’ll all be falling over
As your sitting in your Rover
Coz you’ll be the biggest Charlie
In the Easter parade.

THE SHADOW OF GOLGOTHA

Our lord beaten and bloody
Sent to die like a criminal
To add insult upon injury
Atop his tousled curls
Was set a thorny crown
Pressed into his scalp
He carried his cross
Upon his bloodied back
Through narrow streets
To the baying of the crowds
Then onto the hill of Calvary
Where the prince of peace
Was nailed to his cross of pain
And dealt the final blow
His side pierced by a spear
His earthly life ebbing away
Through the open wound
He called out to God
But not for vengeance
He asked that they be forgiven
And his cross of pain
Cast a Holy shadow
Across the world
That reached every corner
But the shadow cast
Was not one of darkness
But one of light
A divine light
The light of love
Which still shines today
For it is the eternal light of God

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Easter Collection 2016

mardi 22 mars 2016

Night at the mansion – A review of the novel ‘The Dark Auction’

“There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand.” – Mary Shelley

Author Joann Harris’ novel ‘The Dark Auction’ is set in a world where witches, warlocks and powerful sorcerers don’t think twice before wreaking havoc to get what they want. The story is set around a mysterious auction that is conducted every 30 years, where the top prize is a powerful dark power. Laura Johnson is a witch who has to team up with her father’s friend Edward to get to the auction. She isn’t after the prize but the killer who murdered her father to get their hands on the invitation to the auction.

The narrative in The Dark Auction is surprisingly engaging and refreshing to read in spite of its overused theme found in dime a dozen YA genre books. There is an easy going feeling to it and it never feels contrived or like it’s punching above its weight. There are no long winding and boring descriptions and yet you get a clear understanding of the characters and the setting. It follows a gentle and yet purposeful formula for setting up the characters and plot scenes. The action scenes in the book also deserve a mention. They aren’t overdone; in fact they are imaginative and well executed. The bad guys are well defined and their actions will scare you. And someone like Ashmedia’s allegiance to good/evil is questionable; he is an interesting character and is someone you would like to find out more about.

There are a number of important characters here who contribute towards the readability of the story. Chief among them are the protagonists, Laura Johnson and Edward Peters. Laura is someone who has tried to run away from her destiny of being a witch. Born to powerful parents who were connoisseurs of the dark power she too has her powers but she hasn’t perfected them. Laura claims that she is the centre of everyone’s attention because of a seductive spell put on her. But judging from her confidence in tackling even the difficult of situations one can deduce that she would always remain under the spotlight, spell or no spell. Edward is a college professor and is paranoiac by nature that inadvertently helps him out in a lot of situations. Unknown to him he too possesses a certain supernatural power, one that helps him turnaround situations to his benefit. He is vulnerable in love and shows his sensitive side while falling in love with Laura. These two have plenty of scenes together and be it knocking down doors of the enemy or the invincible doors to each other’s minds, they are good together and have a wonderful and exciting sexual chemistry.

There isn’t anything that I found problematic within the book, be it in the narration or the characterizations. There were a few editing errors in the copy I received but then again it was an ARC and I’m sure these must have been rectified before the book hit the stores.

Will there be another follow-up book? I don’t know but let’s hope so. Laura and Edward deserve another story to move their adventure forward.

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Night at the mansion – A review of the novel ‘The Dark Auction’

The Loner

The Loner

Due to a divorce agreement between my parents I was shuttled between two couples for as long as I could remember. It went on until I was eighteen. The family I spent the most time with had a degree of insight into my character. The other family didn't have a clue as to how to help me fit in.

As a child, not fitting in makes you a keen observer. You note every expression, every tone, and each gesture, to compute all the implications. You’re never quite your spontaneous self. Instead, you’re always on guard and not comfortable enough to express your feelings, so when you finally get old enough to express yourself, and it’s negative, it’s misinterpreted as being petulant or stubborn. My dad, (the remote one) asked me to attend something I was uncomfortable with, and I finally said no. He got huffy when I resisted going along with his program, saying,

"Steven, you're a loner."

Of course, I wasn't. I liked the kids in National City. Some of my fondest memories are with them, playing in the canyons and staying out late at night. It was the second family I was uncomfortable with. Just examine the statistics and do the math. Two days out of fourteen means you're not really there. Nothing of mine was at their house, no toys, no clothes, not one jar of bubbles. It felt like a hotel with a family already in it, but the family wasn't mine. I was always keen to return home on Sunday night but I knew how to get along when I was with the remote family on Friday nights and Saturdays. I compensated.

"He's a feeling arranger and a changer of the way he talks."

Of course I was. That's how I got along with strangers. I learned all the survival tricks.

©StevenHunley2016

https://youtu.be/NvbLbqtJ2ZA Neil Young The Loner

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The Loner

The Ordeal

No one said that prostituting oneself would be an everlasting joyride; in fact, it tends to be the antithesis: a series of inverted pleasures, insincere invocations to the gods of love, and acts of forced labor in the bower at Smoochers’ Grove.

I am thirty-three as I write this, an age when most men start to brown around the edges. My equipment still functions admirably—I can arouse my reproductive apparatus without resorting to popular pharmaceuticals. Repeated fire drills on demand have—from my point of view—drained all excitement from the four-alarm deed. Instead, the touch of my gratuity, in cash, is my chief stimulant and source of satisfaction, more potent than any tease and its attendant orgasm. While a sexual discharge may result in a momentary thrill, the ability to extend the lease on the swank automobile of my current dreams dramatically prolongs the rosy afterglow.

There’s a lot of sexual frustration out there. Everyone walks around in a daze, each in his own hermetic, conceited world, with earbuds inserted and attention locked on some palm-sized triviality. Actual human interactions are limited to hastily arranged and easily dismissed meet-ups. There is more to civilized engagement than swiping photos and typing terse messages, but this is the new normality. For some guys, the rush never transcends their initial queries: “Hi! When are you available? What do you do?” My responses, if I deign to send them, combined with my head shot in an attachment are often enough to transport them over the precipice while they remain in the safety of their solitude. Sad, stunted things! They will never know real happiness.

My most recent client was a real doozy of a dope. He canceled twice before promising me (sure, bud!) that he was ready to commit. I arrived at his address and rang the bell. He opened the door to his cheery, too-white-and-bright interior. He turned out to be a bird of the snowy egret breed; you know: tuft of hoary feathers sur la tête. He had soaked up too much sun during his youth in the bayou. But whatever. He offered me a drink. We engaged in small talk, and he mentioned his partner of many years who once shared his house had died from cancer. Nice attempt to strum on my heart strings, but I’ve heard all sorts of woeful tales. At last he indicated he was ready for my ministrations, and I got right down to it.

Everything from first caress to final rumpus was pretty vanilla and by the book. He coyly placed my remuneration on the bureau and asked if I’d like to take a shower. Fine, I said, and repaired (still naked) to the stall. He joined me a moment later. I did not find his continued intimacy unusual, as many assignations end in just this sort of vertical soak. He offered to soap my back. I turned around and faced the tiles. I assumed he was fumbling with the Ivory, but in fact he was reaching for a set of metal handcuffs he had brought into the bathroom and had deposited on the toilet seat. He adroitly snapped one ring around my left wrist and secured the other to a faucet handle. I complained loudly. “Now don’t panic,” he said. “I only want you to be my guest at dinner, and then we’ll have a good night’s rest, side by side.” What the hell, I snarled, you could have asked. Oh, but then he’d have to pay the going rate for an overnighter, and he was a cheapskate. What alternative did I have? Would I run to the police? Ha! No. He shut off the water and stepped out. “I’ll come back for you in a minute,” he said. “Must start the steaks and season the beans.”

I was livid, but I did not lose my head. I examined the handcuffs. He had ratcheted one end so that it had fully closed around the ****-stem (funny terminology, that!) and the handle was one of those old-fashioned quatrefoil types with thick metallic vanes . . . I could not work the shackle off it. But in his hurry to bind my wrist, he neglected to cinch that part of the mechanism tightly. With some pain and effort I was able to Houdini myself out of it. (My hands are daintier than they appear.)
I crept back into the bedroom and dressed. I counted the money—just the flat fee and not a dollar more. What a miser! The birdbrain was busy hooting and whistling in the kitchen, and so I was able to make my escape without incurring another scene.

He tried to reach me again in the next few days, but I blocked his calls. I don’t need his brand of patronage.

But allow me to back up a second. As I walked to my car from the misfit avian’s place—I had parked down the block for discretion’s sake—I was reminded of a dream (verging on a nightmare, really) that I had had recently. It was set in a future where I was a snowy egret long past my prime, and I wandered along midnight roads alone. As I progressed, the blank spaces between the streetlamps grew wider and wider until I was immersed in impenetrable squid’s ink. A storm brewed in the distance. At last I came within sight of a house with an illuminated beacon that outlined its stoop. I ran to the front door and ducked in right as the rain began to fall. The interior of the house was dark, and I didn’t recognize a thing, but I sensed I knew the owner—a onetime friend of mine whose connection to me I had let lapse and had never renewed. Instinctively I moved to the rear, where the bedroom was; I shed my clothes and climbed into his bed. A moment later, he returned from some unspecified errand. I heard him gasp and felt a hesitation; but then he, too, disrobed and slid in behind me. He wrapped his lanky arms and legs around my body and shared his warmth. After that, I was at peace, and I resumed a blissful sleep.

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The Ordeal